Tag: tongue-in-cheek

The clocks went back last night in the UK, treating us to an extra hour. But what to do? What to do with it? Here are a few ideas – not including having a lie-in – based on what this procrastinating writer has been getting up to today.

Go for an early walk round the park, kick through the damp leaves and smell the morning dew. (I’m feeling virtuous, can’t you tell?). Say ‘hello’ to everyone you pass and draw no confidence-sapping conclusions from the fact that the only person to totally ignore you is the 30-something, tight-t-shirted hottie, preoccupied by his smartphone.

Read a big chunk of book (radical for a writer, eh?). Finish one book, begin another. Chain-reading, with but the briefest interval to top up the coffee pot.

Catch up with last night’s #Strictly and waste no energy feeling guilty that at the age of, oh, 50-mumble, the one you’ve got your eye on is the ex-boy-band member.

Bookshop chain Waterstones (no apostrophe these days, harrumph) has announced its Book Club Summer Reads this week. The list is varied and for avid readers, promises a luscious literary experience across the coming months.

Unfortunately, my debut novel, Singled Out, has – I can only presume, in some hideous accidental oversight – been omitted from this list of good and great summer reads of 2015.

I can’t begin to understand how this ghastly blunder could possibly have happened. I am dumbstruck. I can but apologise, because this incomprehensible failure means that instead of a simple ‘click to buy’ from a colourful e-mail landing in your inbox, you’re going to have to embark on a hunt for Singled Out, trailing through the Amazon, all by yourself.

If you’re into sinister tales taking place in delicious settings, your search for Singled Out will reward you with a gripping read. It’s a gritty psychological story about one woman’s struggle to overcome her demons and snare a dangerous stalker. It all takes place on a summer holiday for singles in Turkey, where strangers come together and nobody is quite who they seem.

Yes, you read that right. Summer… summer holiday. Hey, you guys at Waterstones….summer holiday!Wouldn’t this alone qualify for a place on your Book Club Summer Reads list? Wouldn’t it? No?

Oh.

I know. It’s hardly selling in its thousands. It won’t make you book-business guys rich – at least, not overnight. But what about when the bidding war breaks out over those options on a movie or a TV mini-series – when world-renowned production companies are fighting over the rights and A-listers are begging for a role? Maybe then? What was that you said? Cloud-cuckoo land? Oh, don’t be mean, guys. Don’t hit me when I’m down.

Fair enough, I can’t deny it; demand has been, well, modest. The truth? Singled Out has yet to attain three figures in the Sales column – but it’s close, it is. Sort of. Close-ish. But just think what a place on that Book Club Summer Reads list would have done for it. And I’m not just saying this out of blatant self-interest either. I think I could safely argue that, with a little display ingenuity, there’s a profit to be had for any bookshop from my modest literary endeavours. What about those magic tables – the ones that everyone, but everyone, makes for when they come through the doors? Imagine for a moment, how appealing that sultry sunset on the cover of Singled Out would look on one of those tables by the entrance – the one that says ‘Hot New Authors’ or better still ‘Sizzling Summer Holiday Reads’perhaps. Imagine all the book-buying money-spending hands that would reach out for it.

Yes, that would work.

But hey, the list is written, the emails are out and it’s too late for all that business. So all I can do is grumple away under my breath and shake my metaphorical fist at the Book Club selectors. It gets it off my chest a bit at least.

So, friends, followers and readers – an apology: I’m sorry you’ll have to go a-hunting for Singled Out. I’m sorry you won’t ever find it at Waterstones or Barnes & Noble, or even your quirky little independent bookstore. I’m sorry it’s only on Amazon and that – for the time being at least – you’ll have to go further than Amazon’s Top 100 lists to track it down. But if you look, you’ll find it. It’s there for your Kindle (a perfect medium, if ever there was one, to take with you on your… holidays), and for the traditionalists amongst us, it’s there in paperback too.

As for the Waterstones Book Club recommendations, I cannot tell a lie. Notwithstanding that single sloppy omission, it’s a great selection. If you’re an avid reader like me, it’s worth a look – and it’s worth a few of your pennies/cents (only the ones you’ve got left after you’ve picked up Singled Out though).

Meantime, I hope you’ll forgive my shameless opportunism. When I got that Waterstones Book Club email this morning, I just couldn’t resist it.

Just one more thing… of course… Singled Out is available to purchase on these and all other regional Amazon sites:

As a long-time single with an admittedly cynical streak, I have no love for Valentine’s Day, nor Valentine’s Night, nor (because one solitary day just isn’t enough any more for the retailers and restaurateurs) the drawn-out torture of Valentine’s Week.

With its tsunami of slush and lovey-doviness; simpering songs, pitiful poems, oozingly creepy messages from Bunnikins to Big-Boy and more schmaltz than you can shake a dozen overpriced red roses at – the whole Valentine’s thing leaves me stony-cold.

But if you’re paired-off in any meaningful way, it’s tough. The Season of Lurve places a burden on people – especially the men – to deliver on excessive romantic expectations. You, sad souls, are deluded and doomed.

Yes, it’s true. When it comes to meeting outlandish romantic expectations, most men are on a hapless hiding to nothing, condemned to failure before they even start. Their card will be too flippant, not romantic enough or an all-too-obvious last-minute garage purchase; their flowers will be flaccid, their chocolates a cliché; the restaurant will be overcrowded and noisy and the romantic dinner for two a lukewarm letdown. As for any heat in the bedroom (a vain attempt to counteract the chill that will have descended during the day), with the mood so deflated by devotional disaster, only the most dauntless will be able to rise to the occasion.

So, with my tongue planted firmly in my cheek (you realised, right?), I offer a few notes of advice to those hapless guys out there who, despite the promise of almost certain failure, aren’t yet ready to give up before they start.

Here then, are my tips for the boys – how to make your girlfriend/wife/partner’s Valentine’s Day memorable for all the right reasons.

Spend A LOT of money on flowers. Gentlemen, when it comes to florals, size matters. Flowers say, ‘I love you this much’. So get a very big and ostentatious display. Spend more than you imagined spending in your entire lifetime on flowers, in one go. Find the best bouquet of flowers you can afford and then borrow more money from your mates and get a bigger, better one.

Deliver your bouquet in person, preferably to her place of work, so all her friends will see what a lucky, lucky lady she is, to own such a wonderful, thoughtful, generous man.

Buy nothing from a garage or motorway service station. Don’t even think of it.

Get a card. Do it. Get one. Make it tasteful and arty or quirky, but never dirty. Make sure it says love on it somewhere, or prepare yourself for histrionics. Don’t make the mistake of thinking cards are silly. To women, they’re not in the least silly. They will be pored over; their sentiments will be analysed, and providing they make the grade in appropriate levels of taste and expressions of affection, they will be cherished forever in a shoebox under the bed.

When you encounter a naughty underwear shop, walk on by, particularly if the window is dressed with shiny red and black satin. These vile shreds are for you, not her. They show how selfish and deviant you are and you don’t want this thought in her head on Valentine’s Day.

Forget overpriced eating out; cook a meal for her. She won’t care how caustic or inedible the result, she will love you for the attempt. Make food you know she adores, even if you can’t stand it – in fact, particularly if you can’t stand it, as she will love you all the more for your sacrifice.

Fill her car up with petrol/gasoline. It is the gift of all gifts. There’s nothing a woman hates more than when her hands reek of gasoline. It is within your purview to take this misery away.

Unless the pair of you is already acclimatised to painting the town Fifty Shades of Grey, don’t go there for Valentine’s night. If you catch yourself wondering what she might look like in a studded patent leather basque, or whether she might enjoy being roped to the bedposts, or if Valentine’s night might be the appropriate moment to introduce whips and paddles to the bedroom, slap your own face hard and move your naughty little mind along. If you really want to go there, save it for another night; any night, just not this one. The ONLY acceptable play on Valentine’s night is romantic. Got it?

Make it a movie night. Forget Fifty Shades of Grey and hide those movies away – you know the ones I mean. Acquire two or more of the following, plus a box of properly luxurious Belgian chocolates, for your shared pleasure and a guarantee of cuddles and more besides: Sleepless in Seattle, An Officer and A Gentleman, You’ve Got Mail, Brief Encounter, The Way We Were, An Affair to Remember, When Harry Met Sally, Ghost, The Bridges of Madison County, Before Sunrise, Brokeback Mountain, Gone With The Wind, Titanic, Notting Hill, Pretty Woman or Dirty Dancing. Have tissues on standby. No, not for that; for womantic weepiness.

Give her something small which is loaded with meaning and memory. Guys, this one’s a winner and there’s another upside; this kind of gift usually costs little or nothing in cash money terms and it will balance out your investment in the flowers. It can be as small as a pebble from the beach you first kissed on, a fridge magnet from your first holiday together. Nest your tender, thoughtful objet in a box with tissue paper and tie it with a ribbon, then tell her the story of why you kept it. But… I can hear you thinking, how are you ever going to get hold of a sentimental giftie like that – because you’ll never have kept such a thing from its original magical moment. You know that, and I know that. But hey, don’t be troubled by this minor detail. There are pebbles in your garden and fridge magnets from the four corners of the globe on eBay. She’ll never know (because you won’t ever be dumb enough to tell her, will you?) and you won’t believe the cosmic effect your romantic gesture will have on your relationship.

So that’s it – take the advice of this hoary old cynic and a pathway to romantic bliss awaits. Possibly.

And… Happy V… V… oh, I can’t say it. But if you’re into it, have a magnificently slushy time. 😉

‘Blue’ steak – order this only when you’re certain your partner is also a vampire.

Sweetbreads – some people are inexplicably squeamish about animal glands. Most mistakenly believe them to be testicles. The potential yuk-factor rating amongst the untutored is up in the stratosphere – we’re in ‘I’m a Celebrity’ territory here.

And last, but not least… Spare Ribs – they come with A BIB. Enough said.

Writerly frustrations are many and varied. Some of them have nothing at all to do with actual writing.

My spare bedroom at home long ago became my home-office. Now it’s also my writing zone. It’s a bit cluttered – more than my minimalist tendencies can tolerate, truth be told. But in addition to being my write/work zone, it still holds its status as spare room. That means it’s where spare stuff finds a home (usually a more permanent home than the spare stuff deserves). General clutter, unwanted furniture, guest put-you-up (mustn’t let them get too comfortable), over-purchased soft furnishings (you can have too many cushions – strange, but true), old stereos, 300+ CDs and the like have all ended up here. But this is where I spend my days, and notwithstanding the excess stuff that crowds me, I like it up here.

I live in the suburbs of London, but it’s a quiet cul-de-sac and my window overlooks shrubbery and trees, rather than the fronts of other houses, which is nice. It’s a south-facing window too, which means that in the summer the room is bathed in light all day long as the sun is high overhead.

As the leaves begin to turn, the sun droops in the sky and at this point, things get a bit annoying. Blummin’ annoying, in fact. For several hours of the day as I work, the sun, instead of drifting overhead, is low enough to hit me right between the eyes. That would be alright if it shone consistently and I could simply draw my blind for shade. But it’s autumn, which means there is weather – scudding clouds and patchy showers as well as blips of sunlight – it’s all very changeable.

Today is like many days I can look forward to over the coming months. I’m being strobed by the sun. Bright and fierce one minute, sunk behind clouds the next, then out again, then in, then out…. you get the picture. When it’s out I need the blind closed or my retinas will explode. When it’s behind a cloud, the room is plunged into Stygian gloom. That gets me leaping up to open the blind. I sit again and go back to my work – and the sun comes out. To cut a long story short (and overload a sentence with not one, but two clichés), I’m up and down like a very irritable yo-yo all day long.

I know what you’ll say. Just switch the light on, Julie! But I like my view and I enjoy seeing what little activity goes on outside. I don’t want to sit in a darkened room under electric light when the sun is trying to make its presence felt outside. Venetian blinds are the least-worst solution, but light finds its way through all those little pin-holes by the stringing and the twizzle mechanism is too far away to reach without getting up. Sunglasses might help, but what would the neighbours make of me when they wave at me as they wander past? You’re not a celebrity yet, old girl!

At the moment I’m sitting in gloom, blinds twizzled against the sun, although the sun has gone in. Instead of leaping up to twizzle the stick again, I’m penning this quickie grump for my blog.

What writerly frustrations do you put up with, that have nothing to do with your actual writing?